


shatterheart

by rhymeswithpi, yodepalma



Series: limit break [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Everything Hurts, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, M/M, Mostly Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, One-Sided Attraction, POV Multiple, Pre-Game(s), Touch Aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithpi/pseuds/rhymeswithpi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodepalma/pseuds/yodepalma
Summary: Gladio’s hand on his arm wrenches him out of his thoughts, pulls him away from the rack of weaponry as a lance slips free, clattering to the floor. There’s scant inches between them, so close he can feel the heat off Gladio’s skin, and the twistingsomethingin the pit of his stomach wipes the smile off his face.





	1. Chapter 1

He brushes his hair out of his eyes again, pushes his glasses back up his nose. It’s been a while since they’ve sparred this long or this _hard_ , but he’s not going to be the first to admit defeat. Not when he knows he can win. He hasn’t felt this good in far too long, and if he’s learned anything over the last two years of sparring with Gladio, it’s that he doesn’t have to be _stronger_. He just has to outlast him, and that’s something he can do with ease.

His legs ache in an almost pleasant way, blood thrumming in his veins. He’s _winning_ , winning like he hasn’t since the very first time he’d sparred with Gladio. This time, though, Gladio’s not taking it easy on him, isn’t underestimating him. The openings are just _there_ , and he sees them coming, laid out like a game of chess before him. Strategist, indeed.

A well-placed jab with the butt of his lance knocks Gladio back, stumbling, and there it is. Gladio’s favouring his right leg. It’s minor, at best, probably nothing even worth wasting a potion on, but it’s _there_. He’s been waiting for this, waiting for Gladio to show some sign of slowing down. There’s no stopping the smirk that comes with knowing he’s won.

Dodging the next swing is simple enough, slipping behind Gladio is even easier. A quick strike to the back of Gladio’s knee, another across his back, and he’s down, tip of his lance just touching Gladio’s neck.

“I believe this means I win,” he says, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “Do you yield?”

“Shit, Iggy, I give. I yield.”

He backs away, plants his lance in the grass to offer Gladio a hand up. They take a minute to catch their breath, and he knows he’s grinning like a moron, can’t convince himself to stop.

“Been a while since you kicked my ass like that.”

“Well, _someone_ has to put you in your place every so often. I imagine Cor is rather busy with other things these days.”

Gladio stiffens for a moment, and he worries he’s crossed an unseen line until Gladio laughs.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Lunch?”

“No time,” he says, ignoring the _look_ he gets. “I have a meeting to attend, research to finish, and a prince to nag. Not that it’ll help, but a man can dream.”

It’s a short trip inside to the armory, and Gladio spends the walk rehashing the _entire_ fight. He tunes out after the third “woosh”, reveling in the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the way he’s never felt better despite being exhausted to the very core of his being.

It doesn’t even faze him when Gladio slaps his back.

“Great spar, Iggy. Seriously. Dad would be proud.”

The smile that creeps across his face is just as much from knowing he did well as it is from _not_ flinching when someone touched him. He’s still grinning like an idiot while he cleans the last bit of dirt off his borrowed lance, puts it back on the rack with the others. Gladio’s still talking behind him, on some tangent about a hypothetical matchup with Cor. He almost lets himself entertain the thought of taking on the Immortal. Almost.

Gladio’s hand on his arm wrenches him out of his thoughts, pulls him away from the rack of weaponry as a lance slips free, clattering to the floor. There’s scant inches between them, so close he can feel the heat off Gladio’s skin, and the twisting _something_ in the pit of his stomach wipes the smile off his face.

“You should be more careful,” Gladio says. “Don’t want a repeat of last time.”

It’s just one lance. _One_ , and likely just put away haphazardly by one of the new recruits. Nothing at all like the time he’d been in too much of a rush and the loose bolt on the rack had chosen that _exact_ moment to give up, sending the entire thing crashing to the floor. Someone had started yelling, then the room had been full of _people_ before he could say anything or apologise. Staring at him, the idiot who managed to knock down an _entire rack_ of weaponry in his haste to get out of there. But this is just one lance, and it’s hardly even his _fault_.

He knows he should step back or pick up the fallen lance, _anything_ but stand here frozen. This is something friends do, though, they can be this close without flinching or running. Right? He can tolerate this. Gladio’s staring at him. _Really_ staring. The eye contact makes his skin itch.

He wants to look away, turn around, _anything_ that will get Gladio to stop looking at him like this, something so awkwardly _intimate_ , but he’s stuck to the spot. The twist in his gut is getting stronger, wrapping tendrils around his chest, pulse hammering in his ears and he needs to get out but just can’t figure out _how_ , can’t make his body listen.

“Huh, I thought your eyes were blue.”

The statement surprises him, throws him off his guard for a moment, but Gladio’s still touching him, hand on his upper arm and squeezing, and is he leaning in _oh gods he doesn’t want this_ , this isn’t what he thought it was, _he doesn’t want this at all_. His skin feels like it’s on _fire_ , he can’t _breathe_ , and all he can think is that he needs to _run_ , needs to get away from this.

He’s halfway across the courtyard before he’s even aware he _did_ run, that his body finally listened to what his mind was screaming, and at that point he might as well just _keep_ running. Stopping now means thinking about what just happened, acknowledging he probably just ruined the only friendship he had that wasn’t part of his _job_.

 _Fuck_.


	2. Chapter 2

Gladio stares out the open door Iggy had bolted through, wondering what the fuck just happened. Everything had been going _so well_ , or at least he thought it had been, figured when he was able to smack Ignis on the back like a normal person that it must mean _something_. Maybe he’d been wrong, reading into cues that weren’t there but he wanted so badly to see. Iggy just wasn’t actually into him, which was fine. He wasn’t mad about that.

But did he _really_ have to run?

Maybe he did. He’d looked so damn _scared_ , like he thought Gladio was going to eat him. It was ridiculous. It was only a kiss. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Except Iggy hated being touched, had hated it since Gladio had met him, and _still_ Gladio had been—stupid. That’s what he was. He’d enjoyed the spar way too much, gotten distracted by Iggy’s stupid face _again_ , moved in closer and closer and when he’d found his hand gripping Iggy’s arm he’d sort of forgotten everything. Iggy was so close. His eyes were so _green_. And Gladio hadn’t thought to stop himself.

Gladio groans and rubs at his eyes with his fingers until they burn from the sweat and dirt. When he moves, his foot hits the lance that had fallen, and he can’t help the snarl as he picks it up and shoves it back onto the rack hard enough to make the whole thing shake. At least nothing else falls.

He strides from the armory with quick steps, new Crownsguard recruits practically leaping out of his way. Lunch. He needs to eat something; that’s what he’d been about to do when he’d gotten…distracted.

Except he doesn’t feel hungry any more. He can’t shake the vision of Iggy’s fear, and his stomach twists itself into useless knots as he walks. Maybe he should apologize. Admit that he’d fucked up, promise not to do it again or at least to _ask first_. He’d never been very good at apologizing, but dammit Iggy was his _best friend_ and deserved at least that much.

He ducks into a corner of the hallway and rips his phone out of his pocket, scowling at it as he taps in the words of an apology. He’s sorry he’s an idiot. He didn’t _mean_ to scare Iggy and he’s sorry about that too. He won’t do it again, he won’t even think about it if Iggy doesn’t want him to. He can do that at least, right?

He doesn’t hesitate before he sends the message, but he does hit the button while taking a deep breath to steel himself. Apologizing doesn’t come easy to him, but if the other option is Iggy _running_ —

He punches the wall behind him, too frustrated to stop himself, and the sting in his knuckles grounds him. Food, right. He needs to go to the diner that he usually drags Iggy to after a spar, get one of those burgers that Iggy makes disapproving noises at, fill himself up so he can get through the rest of his day without his stomach interrupting things.

When he gets outside, he heads straight for the subway instead and just goes home.

Iggy never responds to his text.

Gladio gives him a few days, figuring he was busy and needed to regroup ( _why_ had he been scared?), but the long silence is distracting. His mind wanders at the worst of times, when he’s training with Noct or with _Cor_ , and he gains more bruises that week than he’s had in years. Gladio finally sucks it up and calls him, paces in the privacy of his bedroom as the phone rings and rings and sends him to voicemail. _Fuck._

Maybe he should go to Iggy’s apartment and _demand_ an explanation. Because that would in no way end badly, obviously. Well, maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe Iggy already hates him, maybe he’s _always_ hated Gladio and is really good at hiding it, maybe Gladio really _is_ as stupid as strangers tend to think he is. He doesn’t know.

He paces the length of his bedroom, past his pile of dirty laundry, along his bed, and kicks at his nightstand. Turns around and stalks by it all again, slams his palms down on his bookcase and knocks over a haphazard pile of books he’d never put away. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to pick them up and start throwing them. To trash his entire room simply for something to _do_ , because Iggy hates him and he can’t focus and he wishes he wasn’t such a colossal fuck up.

…His stupid bookshelf is _really_ disorganized.

He picks up the pile that fell over and neatly organizes them by size. Frowns a bit and reorganizes them by color. Frowns harder and tries it by author, then snorts at himself and decides to do it by genre. Romance, _shitty_ romance, paranormal romance that he reads mostly to dramatically recite the awful magic descriptions at Noct….

Ones he borrowed from Iggy and never got around to giving back. He guesses he’ll have to now, and puts those on top of the shelf so he won’t forget.

It’s easy to lose himself to the rest of the books, and he doesn’t look up until he hears a knock on his door. He figures it’ll be Jared, coming to ask if he needs help with anything, but instead it’s his dad coming in, still wearing his uniform. Gladio takes one look at his worried eyes and turns away, jamming a few more history books onto a shelf they don’t want to fit on. He can feel his dad’s gaze on his back, notices when the weight lifts. He hunches his shoulders and waits for the inevitable question about the books that’s he’s not putting on the shelves, some sort of commentary about the rumors that must be floating around the Citadel by now.

“We haven’t sparred in a while,” his dad says, too calm for it to be as casual of an opening as it sounds. “Thought you might like to go a round after dinner.”

Gladio’s first instinct is to say that he’s _busy_ , but he hesitates. Dad isn’t home as often as he used to be, and maybe he makes time for Iris and Gladio when they need him, but it never feels like _enough_. And they really haven’t fought in ages. Maybe it’ll be different enough to keep Gladio distracted from his thoughts for longer, let him go to sleep too tired to worry about Iggy even more.

“Sure,” he agrees, trying for a casual shrug. He ends up flipping through a book instead as his dad hovers. It’s weirdly tense, and Gladio _never_ has trouble being alone with his dad. He checks his phone for the time to try to cover it up and finds himself grimacing at how late it is. He hadn’t realized he’d wasted the entire day on his surprise project. “Uh, I guess you want me to come to dinner now, huh?”

“Unless your bookshelf is too engrossing to tear yourself away from,” his dad says. Gladio rolls his eyes, but tosses his handful of books to the ground. He can finish that tomorrow, if he still feels like it.

Dinner would be quiet if it weren’t for Iris’s endless chatter about moogles and chocobos and cactuars and how much she’d love to go out and see them in _real life_. Gladio forces himself to pay attention to her, teases her about moogles not being real.

It does make him feel a little better, but the second he’s not doing anything his thoughts turn right back to Iggy. He knows better than to hope for a response, but checks his phone anyway. One of the guys in the Crownsguard wants to know if he’s up for a late night cruising the town, and for once he’s happy to be able to text back that he’s too busy with his dad, though he knows the spar won’t take that long. Nobody will ask him what he’s doing with the king’s Shield.

He tromps down to the training room whistling, aggressively thinks about Iris’ new interest in moogles as he digs out his and his dad’s swords. For a second he considers using a different weapon just for fun, but they don’t keep many in the house, and his eyes slide right past the shields to land on a lance. Iggy’s lance. Not that it gets much use these days, with all of them actively working at the Citadel.

He turns away and finds his dad staring at him from the middle of the room, his eyes thoughtful and intense like he’s looking for an opening in Gladio’s defenses. “Planning to keep me waiting all night?”

“Figured you’d need a break after the strenuous climb down the stairs.” Gladio smirks, falling easily into the banter. “Didn’t want to give myself an unfair advantage. Old man.”

“A decision you’ll regret.”

Fighting his dad is familiar, but it isn’t easy. There’s a _reason_ he’s the captain of the Crownsguard, and it’s not that he’s the Shield. He’s stronger and faster than most people even dream of being, and he doesn’t fall easily for underhanded tricks. On top of that, he knows Gladio’s moves as well as he knows his own, and Gladio can’t _afford_ to be distracted. It works for a while as he falls into the rhythm of dodge-block-parry-strike, and then they spin around and Gladio’s eyes catch on a flash of light reflecting off the lance. If Iggy was there they’d have _won_ already, but he’s not sure if Iggy will ever be there again.

It’s only a fleeting thought, barely a second of distraction, but it’s enough for him to find himself disarmed and thrown to the ground. His dad stands over him, sword held loosely at his side and a hand on his hip.

“Cor was right,” he says. “You’re distracted.”

“It’s nothing,” Gladio snaps, climbing to his feet and moving to pick up his weapon. Dad sighs softly behind him. “I’m working on it, okay?”

“The Shield must be able to think clearly when His Majesty can’t—”

“I _know_ ,” Gladio growls, because he does, he’s heard this speech so often he could recite it in his damn sleep.

“—And yet from what I’ve heard you’ve allowed yourself to be distracted in a spar no less than three times this week,” his dad continues, relentless, and Gladio can’t look him in the eyes. There’s a pause heavy enough that Gladio balls one hand in a fist, shaking and tense. “Do you need a break from your duties?”

Gladio jerks like he’s been stabbed, _feels_ like he’s been stabbed, and he wants to believe his dad wouldn’t do that to him but he knows better. Their first duty is to the Crown, always. If there’s even the slightest risk that Gladio might be unable to fulfill it, he _needs_ to step down.

But Shields don’t get breaks, you either are one or you aren’t, and Gladio doesn’t know what he’ll do if he suddenly _isn’t_. He and Noct have their problems, sure, but he takes his job as seriously as his dad does. He’d never let any harm come to Noct, not if he could stop it. But that’s where the issue is, isn’t it? _If_ he can stop it, _if_ he can get his head together enough to notice something’s happening.

Gladio can see the disappointment in his dad’s eyes, the dip in his shoulders as he decides that Gladio isn’t who they both want him to be. Something terrible climbs out of Gladio’s stomach and up his throat and makes him blurt out, “I tried to kiss Ignis!” All in a rush, as incomprehensible as Prompto.

Whatever his dad was expecting, it isn’t that. “I…imagine it went badly,” he says slowly.

Gladio groans, rubbing his face with his hands. “He beat me in a spar and he was so—so—” He doesn’t know how to explain it, how to tell his dad that Iggy’s _always_ beautiful and amazing, but when he’s flush with victory he’s mesmerizing. Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t. “And he didn’t flinch when I touched him, so I thought _maybe_ …but he ran. And now he won’t answer me.”

He finally looks up, hoping for advice, but his dad looks tired and drawn. Far more than the conversation warrants. He doesn’t seem to be entirely talking to Gladio when he looks down at his own sword and says in a low voice, “It makes sense, given his training.”

“What training?” Gladio asks. His dad gives him a sharp look, but doesn’t answer. Gladio knows that’s his cue to back down, but the need to understand what’s going on with Iggy outweighs everything else. “I thought you trained him?”

“I taught him how to fight.” His dad hesitates so obviously that it makes Gladio nervous, but he doesn’t back down. “Ignis is His Highness’s Sword, and a Sword is useless if it breaks.”

Gladio feels cold, dread crawling up his spine and crouching in his chest. He doesn’t think he wants to know what his dad is trying to say any more. He’s afraid he might _already_ know. “No sword is unbreakable.”

“Forged correctly, some may as well be.”

He’s known enough shady politicians to know it doesn’t mean anything good when they start talking about people like they’re tools. “What did they—what did you _let_ them do to him?”

His dad doesn’t answer right away. Gladio’s never seen him look so old before, so weighed down, and the silence stretches thin between them. He finds himself thinking about how Iggy hasn’t liked being touched since Gladio met him two years ago, since _before_ that even, and wonders how long Iggy has been suffering that training for. Not that it matters. Iggy hadn’t been old enough to agree to it regardless, which meant _Gladio’s dad_ had made the decision for him.

He doesn’t hear the answer when it finally comes. “What would you have said if the king wanted to do that to me? Or _Iris_?” he asks, heart pounding in his throat.

It probably would’ve been kinder if Gladio had punched his dad. But Iggy’s been around for so many years, his dad used to save slices of cake from dinner for him, and it’d always seemed like dad had thought of him as something more than a student. Another child. If he could hand Iggy over just like that, then what was stopping him from doing it again?

“Gladio, I would _never_ —”

He doesn’t want to hear it. He feels like he’s going to explode but he feels empty at the same time, and when his dad reaches out to him he practically leaps back. He needs to get out of there, needs to check on Iris even though he knows she’s fine, needs to call Iggy again and say—what? That he knows? That it’s fucked up and shitty and he can’t believe that _his own father_ —

He doesn’t say anything else. He runs, thunders back up the stairs and slams his bedroom door behind him. Locks it. Wishes he knew what to do or say to fix things, but he doesn’t. It’s too late to save them all from this shit now, and he can’t go back in time.

The door is firm and solid behind him and he leans into it, tilting his head back and staring into the shadows on the ceiling. He takes several deep breaths, closes his eyes when one catches in his throat. He’s not going to cry, he’s _not_ , he’s a grown man and a member of the Crownsguard and people like him _don’t cry_.

But he’s never felt so alone in his life.

  



	3. Chapter 3

He’s frustrated, he realises. That’s what this is. None of these idiots can take a hit, not the way Gladio — he shuts down that train of thought before he can complete it. There’s no sense in the comparison, anyway. They simply can’t keep up with him, they show their weaknesses far too early and openly, and it’s nowhere near as satisfying to take them down as it could be with a decent opponent. Or at very least a _competent_ one. At this point he’d take someone who knows which part of a sword is the pointy bit.

Not to mention he can’t even bring himself to respond to any of Gladio’s messages, can’t even _open_ them without guilt and shame crashing down on him. It’s been _weeks_ , now. He’d almost shown up to their next scheduled spar, had almost convinced himself to walk into the training room like nothing had happened before running again.

It’s better to just train on his own. No one has to be the unwitting victim to his _anger_ this way. So long as he’s acknowledging this stagnant feeling, his own inability to _function_ , he might as well admit he has no one but himself to blame. It’s his own fault for letting his guard down, for thinking he’d ever be able to act _normal_.

There’s no sense of accomplishment in the grouping of daggers he’s thrown at the training dummy, and it feels more like a failure without someonethere to appreciate how precise the throws were. He hefts the last dagger in his hand, throw interrupted by his phone ringing _again_ in the corner of the room. It goes wide, misses the dummy completely, clatters noisily to the floor.

He _hates_ this, hates that he can’t just lock this all away like he’s used to doing. Not from lack of trying; it just keeps slipping out from behind the door in his mind and invades the rest of his thoughts, messes with his ability to process anything _but_ what happened.

With a sigh, he yanks the last dagger from the dummy, picks up the one that missed. It’s a simple routine of wiping them clean and putting them away, something he’s done so many times that there’s no need to focus this intently on it, but he still examines each blade carefully, makes sure the edges are still sharp and nothing’s been damaged. There’s no reason someone else should have to deal with his errors. With the last blade carefully placed back in the case, he picks up his phone.

Three missed calls from Noct. A handful of new texts, asking where he is and when he’s going to get there. He’s slipping. Missing appointments, late to meetings, and now he’s _completely forgotten_ he was supposed to pick up Noct. Just when he was starting to think he had a handle on all of this, had figured out how to have friends (alright, _one_ friend) and still balance his duties, something just had to prove him horrendously _wrong_. He’s not cut out for this. He can’t even manage the one thing he’s been doing every day for _years_.

But that thought will have to wait for later, after he’s fumbled his way through the rest of the night. He might be terrible at it, but he still has a job to do.

  


He mutters an apology as he enters the apartment, not knowing or really _caring_ if it’s heard. With everything he’s managed to do wrong in the last couple weeks, it doesn’t really matter if he screws up again.

“Got take out,” Noct says, not looking away from the screen. “Figured you were busy after the third call you didn’t answer.”

He sighs. Of course. Might as well just prove useless on this front, as well, and settle in to catch up on all the reports he hasn’t been reading the last couple weeks. There’s no excuse for how far behind he is and he _knows_ it, but he can’t convince himself to really care right now.

It’s easy enough to just sit there and stare blankly at the pages in front of him, listening to whatever game the others are playing. He should head back to his own apartment if he intends to actually get any work done, but that means actually _doing_ something and probably listening to whatever part of his mind wants to think about his personal life and how he’s messed _everything_ up lately.

The noise is a welcome distraction, compared to what he has at home. Listening to Noct play through Oracle Quest for what has to be the twelfth time keeps him from dwelling too much in his own mind. Anything is better than silence at this point, even if it is frivolous. He’d even take that gods-awful noise Prompto insists is music over being alone with his thoughts.

He’s tried to read this report a handful of times, focus failing somewhere in the first three words. He knows those three words _really_ well by now, at least. Too bad they aren’t enough to consider himself well-informed on the subject, much less able to write a summary for Noct or hold his own in any sort of meeting about it. He’s supposed to attend a meeting about it _tomorrow_ , filling in for the errant prince. One of them should at least have a chance to be a normal teenager, and it’s far too late for him. It’s easy to justify letting Noct continue to skip council meetings with that in mind.

Even if he can’t pay attention and clearly isn’t going to be much help to anyone involved.

Even if he can’t ask for help, because that just shows a crippling weakness someone will undoubtedly exploit.

“Man, none of this makes _any_ sense, Iggy.”

When did Prompto get so _close_ without him noticing? The kid’s practically leaning on his shoulder, trying to stare at the report. How did he let himself get cornered like this? His pulse is pounding in his ears again, heart in his throat, and there’s no way to run without making it obvious that’s what he’s doing. He’s tired of running. But Prompto’s backing off, hands held up where he can see them, and he finally lets out the breath he’s been holding. If it’s shakier than usual, he’s not going to admit to it.

“Well, I’m beat,” Prompto says, stretching. “Gonna head out.”

Noct walks Prompto to the door, promises they’ll finish the level some other night before returning to lean on the table. He belatedly thinks he should’ve offered Prompto a ride home, taken the chance to excuse himself for the evening. He’s getting nothing done, he might as well fail at his job in private.

A soft _thwap_ breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Come on, Specs. You need a break.”

When did Noct move his notes? He swears they’d just been on the table in front of him, but Noct has the notebook in his hand.

“I’m behind enough as it is,” he mumbles. “ _Someone_ has to keep you informed on the events in your kingdom.”

“You can catch up after you take a break,” Noct says, holding the notebook out of his reach.

“Do you _mind_?” he snaps. “I’m trying to _read_ that.”

“It took you three minutes to notice I’d _taken_ it. And only because I hit you with it. Take a break. Then nerd out all you want.”

His glare falters when he meets Noct’s eyes. This isn’t the time or place to vent his frustrations. His shortcomings are not Noct’s fault.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, “but only because you’ll keep pestering me until I give in.”

He’s not entirely sure how he gets talked into watching a movie or why he’s in charge of holding the popcorn. Noct all but orders him to sit on the couch and _wait_ while snacks are fetched. He doesn’t even _like_ soda, but Noct hands him a can before flopping next to him on the couch and swiping a handful of popcorn.

“What?” Noct says. “Not all of us keep your weird coffee on hand at all times.”

He has no answer for that, opting instead to pick at the bowl of popcorn in his lap. It’s far too salty and there is an _obscene_ amount of butter on it. The smell is nauseating. His disapproving frown goes unnoticed as Noct starts the movie, though, and he’ll just have to accept sitting through whatever atrocity it is so he can get back to trying (failing) to read.

The plot makes no sense. At all. The characters have changed sides more times than he can count, and he’s not even sure which side is which any more. Trying to keep up with it just makes his head ache, and the explosions aren’t helping. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the couch. This isn’t awful. It could be a lot worse. He’s just _tired_ , tired of disappointing the important people in his life and tired of being dreadful at the one thing he thought he was almost decent at.

  


He wakes up to the sound of a door closing, gets tangled up in a blanket that wasn’t there before as he startles himself right off the couch. Couch? That’s not what — he stops himself, counts backwards from ten while he tries to figure out where he is, what’s going on, why this isn’t _right_.

Noct’s apartment. That’s where he is. He must’ve fallen asleep during the movie. His shoulder protests a bit as he extracts himself from the blanket, folding it before putting it back on the couch. The pain is easy enough to ignore, brushed off as he realises he’d slept sitting up. Immediately falling probably didn’t help, either. It’s nothing to worry about, though, and he has far too much to _do_ to waste any more time thinking about it.

There’s a note on the table under his glasses, scrawled in Noct’s messy hand, summarising what he _assumes_ was the report he never got around to reading the night before. It’s vague, at best, but Noct clearly _tried_ to prepare himself for the meeting. The report itself is nowhere to be seen. It’s the first time in _weeks_ he’s felt almost okay again, even if he can’t manage to get through a single report. At least Noct is trying to make things easier for him, offered to sit in on this meeting himself.

He’s not used to sudden holes in his schedule like this, toys with the idea of going home and getting some proper rest, but he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to sleep no matter what he does. More training, then. Maybe he can perfect his knife throw, lose himself in the routine of it all. He knows full well he needs to talk to Gladio and probably apologise to Prompto, but that can wait for later.

There’s time for everything later.


End file.
